Without missing a beat, though, and no costume change, we drove straight from the mall to a Girl Scout holiday party with wonderful friends, games, food, presents, conversations, and another rush of time. Five hours later, all The Three of Us could think about was sleep.

A funny thing happened, though, on the way to gathering with other parents at the stage area to cheer our kids on: a salesperson approached my husband and me with moisturizer samples from a boutique where even walking in and breathing the rarefied air carries the expectation of leaving a tip! I guess we were profiled!

Except that the tips were given to me by a young man from France who carefully massaged the left side of my face while telling me how to care for my skin. I swallowed down laughs and tried not to joke too loudly with my husband that this impromptu face treatment was going to cost a fortune.

Actually, said Guillaume, it would cost just a few hundred dollars and last two years because even after years of tennis and distance running, my skin, thanks to not smoking and my already being a fan of organic creams, was in pretty good shape.

He then asked the question I had been waiting for: my age. This time, I could not stifle my laughter. I made him guess. A good salesman, he made me several years younger. We talked a little more, but I was determined not to spend any money and to make it to my daughter’s hula performance in time. Guillaume expertly applied at least $30 of product to the other side of my face, made another sales pitch, gave us his boutique’s contact information, and let us go.

On the way to Girl Scout festivities, I talked to my husband about the fun and unexpected boutique experience. Mind you, I grew up avoiding malls. I’ve never had a credit card. I’ve usually held two or three jobs. Just last week, I blogged about how I had purchased my last piece of new clothing. I’m a fan of free samples.

My husband turned to me in the car at a traffic stop, smiled and said, “I’ve never seen your skin look better. Maybe you should consider buying the product.”

You see how lucky I am. Maybe it was my husband’s kind words, Guillaume’s magical potions, or exhilaration about my daughter fitting in so well into the communities we have found in Hawaii that I felt lighter, maybe even 5 years younger!

A day later, I’m back to the challenges and joys of parenthood, thinking of what I need to accomplish at work this week, and uneasy thoughts about the state of world affairs, but I believe my skin still has a certain glow to it — or maybe that’s just residue from the yogurt my daughter spilled on me this morning.

Like writing this blog every day of the year in its first year (except weekends and holidays).

Like writing this blog every weekend (Saturday or Sunday) and every Wednesday in its second year.

Like finishing every marathon I have ever entered.

My entry on Sunday about parenthood promised a conclusion and some backstory.

And here we have Wednesday already!

So here I go.

Last weekend was typical for our family. Our seven-year-old daughter does not believe in sleeping in so The Three of Us were up by six, trying to stay pretty quiet for the neighbors, getting ready for a day of Hawaiian Studies and hula at the YMCA followed by exercise, followed by chores, meals, homework (for our daughter and her two dads for their jobs!), a lovely drive to take in Hawaii that we sometimes forget to do with the rush of everyday life.

Sunday brought a lot of excitement. Our daughter read an aspiration at Temple service. Her fathers squeezed in work. She then was installed as a Brownie at a large gathering of Girl Scouts. Her fathers held back tears and squeezed in a little more work.

Then we visited Ellen’s favorite museum for two hours while her one father tutored to pay for our daughter’s summer school. (We like to plan ahead.)

This father, the author of this blog, took Ellen to her favorite places. We had lemonade. The two hours went by quickly. We met a new family with two young daughters close to Ellen’s age. The girls played games together and really seemed to enjoy each other’s company. The father I met teaches special education. His wife is a specialist in genetics. Our conversation was easy. They both remarked how they could instantly see that Ellen is a smart, alert, and physically strong young girl with great social skills. Full of hope, I gave out my business cards. They could understand why I dream that she one day go to college. They said with a daughter like Ellen, they would do the same.

The girls left the volcano exhibit to play on a great lawn outside. The girls’ laughter filled the air. But the museum was soon closing, Ellen’s other father, who watched from afar, was wrapping up his tutoring. My new friends wanted to leave. We talked about a possible playdate which is such a rare occurrence for our family. Even when Ben and I have invited families to our home, prepared wonderful meals, engaged in fun conversations, we rarely hear back or are offered an invitation in return.

We’ve often wondered if people are a bit scared of their children having friendships with a girl born with an extra chromosome, or with her parents who often feel we come across as a bit needy or too hopeful.

A natural suggestion many people have is to join groups with other families with children with “disabilities,” a term that I avoid, especially around my daughter. It has always been our goal that she hold her own with “typical” children. And so far she has — at school, at the YMCA, at Temple services at Girl Scouts. She is thriving.

But she needs friends. So when at the great lawn at the museum when we were all getting ready to say goodbye, and my daughter inexplicably shoved her new, younger friend out of the blue, my heart stopped. It was not a hard shove, but a clear one. I made Ellen apologize. The girls hugged. The mother assured me her daughters shove each other all the time. But I was crestfallen.

At home, not the calm, steady Quaker I try to be, my voice shook a little when I explained to Ellen that a strong finish is perhaps more important than everything that came before, whether its miles in a marathon, the end of a tennis match or playdate, finishing a semester, the last sentence of an exam or poem.

I don’t know how much of that life lesson she took in. Why should I expect so much from her when I am still reminding myself how valuable strong finishes are?

It is no surprise for me that I have not yet heard from the girls’ parents I met last Sunday at the museum. My disappointment about how the Sunday afternoon ended is less intense now that it is Wednesday. I am, though, waiting for a few miracles to come my way. Maybe they have and I’m just a little too tired to recognize them.

I live in Hawaii. I work at a school where for a few hours yesterday students and staff gathered for one of the first presentations in our new building. It was led by a gentleman who was a volunteer in the ’60s to assist African-Americans to overcome barriers so they could vote in Mississippi.

When I celebrate my birthday, I will always think of Edith Windsor.

Because of Edie, who died yesterday at age 88, the Supreme Court granted same-sex married couples federal recognition for the first time although it was “just” 13 states and the District of Columbia. The decision was handed down on June 26, 2013. Two years later, on the same day, my birthday, the Supreme Court allowed us to marry anywhere in the United States.

My husband and I had moved three times before and after we became parents to find states where we could raise our daughter as a legal married couple.

I mentioned to our guest speaker yesterday that I never thought in my lifetime that my husband and I could work in the same place as a same-sex married couple raising a young child and be warmly embraced by an extended community that includes hundreds of men and women of all generations.

I asked our guest speaker if he had known that Edie had died. He had not yet read the news.

It dawned on me later that as a young man, our guest had set out on a path in an area of Civil Rights that not only changed his life but thousands of others.

I read that Edie, when she was young, had never imagined that she would be an activist.

Like Edie early in her life, I did not want to stand out as a minority, but somehow I became a trailblazer: the first openly gay male in my vast extended family, the first to introduce my husband at a family reunion as my husband, the first openly gay male in at least four places where I’ve worked, one half of the first openly gay couple in my family to raise a child although now, thank goodness, a few cousins and their wives have joined me.

I wonder about my talented, bright daughter born with an extra chromosome. Will she receive a college degree as my husband and hope and will do everything we can to make that path appealing to her? She already has inspired many as a student in an inclusive public school where she is more than holding her own, as a Girl Scout, as a student of hula and Hawaiian Studies at our YMCA where our family was asked to be part of a campaign to help promote diversity.

Edie and countless men and women like the gentleman who spoke at our school yesterday have inspired quiet activism in me over the years: Arthur Ashe, Althea Gibson, Billie Jean King, Martin Luther King Jr. just to name a few.

Yesterday, listening to our guest speaker and reading about Edie, I was reminded of something I have known for years: never give up unless I really want to which doesn’t happen too often!